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There are two guards at the main gate, but none along the outer perimeter. Inside the fence walls, however, there’re at least five men patrolling the grounds, and more are stationed at the front door. I don’t see any monitoring cameras except for the one at the gate, which seems to be the only entrance to the property.
I climb back down off the tree and walk along the fence wall until I reach the spot I’ve chosen as my entry point, extracting the grappling hook and rope from my backpack. During my missions with the Z.E.R.O. unit, we always used state-of-the-art pressure-powered grapnel launchers, but those are designed to secure access to very high-up locations and they tend to be too loud. Regular house walls require old-school equipment.
It takes me three tries until the hook finds its purchase. Using the rope, I climb the smooth wall, throw the hook to the ground on the other side, then jump down.
Most of the courtyard is well-lit, but there are trees and decorative shrubs scattered around. I use them for cover as I move toward an unguarded door at the back of the house. I’m almost there when a security guard rounds the corner and stops in front of the entrance. When he doesn’t leave after five minutes, I use the shadows and foliage to reach a corner of the building. The guard’s back is to me, and he is looking down at his phone. I approach him from the rear, press my palm over his mouth, and wrap my other arm around his neck. The man thrashes and tries to free himself, but I squeeze my arm tighter, snapping his neck.
I haul the body behind a bush and reach into my backpack to get the alarm jammer that’s compatible with the security system I spotted installed in Elio Pisano’s house. A minute later, I’m inside.
The layout of the house is similar to Rocco's—huge foyer and equally decorative wooden stairwell, frescos on the ceiling. A quick look around confirms there’s no one in the vicinity. The stairs creak under my boots as I climb to the second floor and then turn left. All four bedrooms on this side are empty, so I head back the other way when I hear footsteps and the squeak of the floorboards. I press my back to the wall and take out my knife.
A man in a butler’s outfit steps onto the landing. I have no idea what business he has roaming the house at three in the morning, but today is not his lucky day. I grab the front of his jacket and simultaneously swipe my knife across his neck. Blood pours over my hand as his body twitches a few times. I carry the dead butler to one of the empty bedrooms, then continue with my search.
I find Elio Pisano in the far bedroom. He’s sprawled in the middle of the four-poster bed, wearing nothing but his boxer briefs—snoring. Reaching into the pocket of my tactical vest, I pull out a small box that holds a syringe and approach the bed.
For a few moments I just watch Rocco’s father, enjoying the thrill of what will come, then I cover his mouth with my palm and bury the needle into his neck. Elio’s eyes snap open, and I revel in the panic I see in them. His hand shoots out, grabbing my forearm, only to fall back down onto his chest. Limp, like the rest of his body.
I remove my hand from his mouth and watch his bulging eyes as they stare at the empty hypodermic needle in my other hand.
“It’s a convenient little cocktail,” I say as I put the hypodermic back into its box. “Military uses it sometimes. It paralyzes the body so the person can’t move or speak.”
I unstrap the knife from my thigh and place the edge of the blade on the tip of his thumb.
“You want to know the fun part? It doesn’t numb the pain.” I smile and slice off a part of the flesh from his finger.
Only once before have I witnessed a man scream with his eyes. It was more than a decade ago, a time when Kai went AWOL following a mission, and Kruger decided to teach him a lesson afterward. He pumped Kai full of the same cocktail I’ve just used on Elio and stabbed him randomly. But there’s one very big difference between then and now. The look in Kai’s eyes showed a scream of fury. Elio’s eyes show only terror.
“Let me tell you a story.” I move the knife up Elio’s hand and forearm, making a shallow incision as I drag the tip. Enough to inflict significant pain without the possibility of making him bleed out. “It’s a story of a woman who was taking a morning stroll through the neighborhood because she liked the smell of blooming trees in springtime.”
I stop when I reach his elbow. There are certain parts of the body where the nerves close to the surface are more sensitive to pain. Fingertips. Knees. The arch of a foot. The tibia. Elbows. I bury the tip of the knife in the center of his, right through the ulnar nerve.
“A man in a souped-up car ran a red light and hit the woman as she was crossing the street,” I continue as I twist the knife in his flesh. “He was drunk and driving twice the speed limit. And he fled the scene without ever looking back.”
My nostrils fill with the smell of urine. When I look up, Elio’s eyes are bloodshot, and a fine layer of sweat covers his forehead. I lean over him and drag the knife up to his neck, leaving a thin red trail behind.
“And the driver’s daddy—a newly made capo trying to impress the new don of New York—made sure to cover everything up so well, it took me years to find the culprit.”
I slide the edge of the knife across his neck, keeping the cut shallow, then trail a line down and stop right above his heart. When I have the knife in place, I bend my head until my mouth is just next to his ear.
“That woman was my wife,” I whisper. “As you are dying in a puddle of your own blood and piss, think about what I’ll do to your son.”
I grip the knife harder and plunge it into his heart, all the way to the hilt.
The sound of a turning doorknob and the creak of wood floors under slow steps wakes me. My eyes snap open but I don’t dare to move. For a moment, I think it’s Rocco, coming to force himself on me. Then, I remember—he’s not here. I sit up in the bed, clutching the bed covers to my chest, and notice Alessandro on the recliner by the balcony door. Based on the pale light peeping through the window, it must be early morning. He doesn’t look like he’s slept at all, and the strange outfit he’s got on leaves me without a doubt.
“What are you doing in my room?” I ask, scanning his getup of black cargo pants and a long-sleeved shirt. A black military vest is dangling over the arm of the recliner. Other than in the library, during my self-defense lessons, I’ve never seen him wear anything but suits.
Alessandro doesn’t reply, only keeps glaring at me.
“Leave,” I snap. “You got what you wanted yesterday. It won’t happen again. Out.”
His nostrils flare and a guttural groan leaves his lips. I lower my eyes to his hands. He’s gripping the arms of the recliner, his body taut. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows, revealing the strained muscles on his forearms. Dark red stains mar the back of his right hand and fingers.
“Is that blood?”
“Yes,” he says through gritted teeth. “I was trying to distract myself.”
“What kind of a distraction leaves a person with blood up to their elbows?”
